


A Minor Inconvenience

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 16:21:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6247042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phryne was looking forward to their next murder investigation, but Jack has been called away to Sydney. Or so he said. So who was in that hospital bed?</p>
<p>(s2-s3 gap filler)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Minor Inconvenience

**Author's Note:**

> So, whopooh gave me an amazing prompt! And while I have optimistic plans to tackle it _very_ thoroughly, there were half a dozen ideas floating around my head and this one tickled me. Not entirely sure it worked the way I was _hoping_ , but it gave me a chance to try something a little different and I think the outcome was fun enough to share.

“Phryne, when was the last time you saw Inspector Robinson?”

Engrossed in her book, Phryne hadn’t even heard the door.

“As an conversational gambit, that is a new one from you, Mac,” Phryne laughed, turning in the chaise to welcome her friend. The look on her face sobered Phryne immediately. “Mac?”

“Humour me, Phryne. Last time you saw your inspector.”

Phryne took a sip of whiskey, doing the math.

“Two weeks? Two and a half? He’s gone to Sydney to visit an ill relative.”

The news had come close on the heels of the Sanderson and Fletcher arrests and the near kiss interrupted by Aunt Prudence. Terrible timing, but ill relatives hardly waited for it to be a convenience.

“Have you spoken to him? A letter? A postcard even?”

“No, but that’s hardly unusual. We’re friends, but he’s not answerable to me,” Phryne said. And while that was, strictly speaking, true, she had found herself oddly hurt by the lack of communication. “What’s with the interrogation?”

Mac poured herself a drink, collapsed into a chair opposite Phryne, and looked at her seriously.

“I don’t wish to alarm you, but are you _certain_ that’s where he is?”

“Jack told me himself, Mac.He hardly had an incentive to lie about something like that. What the blazes is going on?”

“I was covering a friend’s rounds at the hospital today. Ward I’m not usually in. There is a man that looks…” Mac downed her whiskey in one go. “No, I’m sure it’s nothing. Inspector Robinson is no doubt, as you say, in Sydney caring for a relative.”

“If you really thought it was nothing you wouldn’t be here. But surely you could just check the patient’s name.”

“That’s the thing, Phryne. The patient is named Reg McAllen—”

“See? Problem—”

“He has a police guard,” Mac cut in. “A prisoner, ostensibly, but the constable looked far too worried about it.”

“And you think, what? That Jack’s in the hospital under guard and an assumed name because…? I think perhaps you need to cover fewer shifts for friends and get some rest, Mac,” Phryne laughed, ignoring the intuitive little prickles that were already combing over her last interactions with Jack.

He’d been somewhat subdued when he’d stopped by Wardlow to give her the news on his way out of town, but given the ill relation _that_ was hardly unexpected. Who had he said it was? She racked her memory, coming to the unsettling realisation that he hadn’t specified. He had been vague about when he’d return—also expected, given the ill relative—or if he’d been able to keep in touch. Phryne had told him to telephone if she could help in any way and he had winced before thanking her for the offer.

The whole thing was perfectly normal. She knew Jack’s family was small, he was exceptionally loyal, and there was no doubt some pressure for him to disappear while the early repercussions of George Sanderson’s arrest played out. It was also a perfect excuse for a delicate undercover assignment.

Well, bugger.

Still, there was one argument against it.

“Mac, why didn’t you just speak with him?” she asked. “Jack’s hardly going to lie to _you_ , and even if he did you’d know.”

Phryne did not like the way that Mac set her glass aside and looked her straight in the eye.

“Because, Phryne, Reg McAllen’s been unconscious ever since they brought him in.”

 ———

The next morning, Phryne dressed carefully. Hugh first, because he couldn’t lie if his life depended on it, and then the hospital. It was likely nothing, she assured herself, and wished she had pressed Jack for contact details. It would have laid to rest her worries the night before; surely Jack was a close enough friend that she _should_ have asked? Then again, if Sydney was not his destination, perhaps she had sensed that and not pushed. Aggravated at the thought, she tossed her hat on the bed and selected another one. No, that wasn’t the one either. She needed to be intimidatingly composed, and nothing in her wardrobe was quite right.

“Dot!” She called out, and a moment later her companion opened the door with a perfectly appropriate teal hat in hand. “What would I do without you, my dear?”

Dot blushed. “Miss?”

“Ahh,” Phryne was looking in the mirror, adjusting the hat so it perfectly framed her eyes. “Yes, Dot?”

“This seems like an awful lot of fuss just to stop by the station.”

Phryne forced herself to smile broadly. “There’s no such thing as too much fuss. Some days a woman just needs that extra bit of _je ne sais quoi_.”

“Of course, miss,” said Dot. “Is this about a case?”

“Somewhat, I suppose,” she said as nonchalantly as she could manage. “Sort of a Case of the Missing Inspector.”

“I thought Inspector Robinson went to Sydney?”

Had he told _everyone_ where he was going?

“Yes, of course he did. But I am rather hoping I can get some contact details; I need to speak with him about a rather urgent matter.”

“Very well, miss. Should I have Mr. Butler prepare breakfast?”

She wasn’t entirely certain she could choke down even Mr. Butler’s divine cooking; her stomach—obviously more nervous than her mind—revolted at the thought.

“Just coffee, please,” she said. “I think it’s best if I get this all out of the way immediately.”

“I’ll bring up a tray.”

“No need!” Phryne said brightly, checking herself in the mirror a final time. “I’ll be down directly.”

 ———

Hugh was no help at all, and every other officer in the station made himself scarce at Phryne’s arrival. Most aggravating. It did not allay her fears either; usually a man or two could be trusted to nose around in search of food, if nothing else.The absences felt too deliberate, and Phryne could hardly stand in the middle of the station and shout for an explanation of Jack Robinson’s disappearance.   

“Sydney, Miss Fisher,” Hugh said. “Off to visit an ill relative.”

“Which one?” Phryne asked, and Hugh simply looked befuddled. Clearly he had not thought to question the specifics, and Phryne would have been annoyed except she hadn’t either.

The next stop was the hospital. She hoped she wouldn’t have to invoke the spectre of Aunt Prudence and her position on the board, thought she bloody well would if it was necessary. But that was a last resort; she had her charms, her money, and Mac before then.

Her charms and money got her nowhere, and Mac just shook her head as they sat together in the courtyard.

“It’s not my ward, Phryne. You are asking me to risk my reputation to even ask about that patient, and there is no way I could get you anywhere near him if it did turn out to be your inspector.”

“He’s not my inspector,” Phryne said automatically.

“Of course not. You’d be eyeing the fourth storey windows for any of your colleagues, yes?” Mac said, taking a drag of her cigarette.

Phryne blushed; she hadn’t even realised that she was trying to figure out which exterior windows corresponded to the room with a police guard she had spotted at a distance.

“I never should have given voice to my suspicions,” Mac said, shaking her head. “You can never leave well enough alone.”

Mac wasn’t truly irritated; she’d known Phryne long enough and well enough that she would have predicted the outcome.

“Can’t you just...help out a friend again? Please, Mac?”

“And what would you do with that information, Phryne? Whoever is in that bed is not Jack Robinson, and he can’t have Jack Robinson’s visitors.”

“I need to know, Mac.”

_I need to know that he is safe, that he isn’t alone in a hospital bed with nobody to...oh. Oh.  I need him to be alive because I can imagine the alternative all too well._

“Look, I won’t risk my job. But if I can find a way to rule it out, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you, darling,” Phryne said, reaching out to take the cigarette from Mac’s grasp and taking a deep drag. She hadn’t smoked since France, but it seemed like a damned good idea right then.

 ———

 The next evening Mac came by the house again; Phryne had spent most of the day trying to track down Jack’s Sydney relation without success. She was becoming more and more convinced that the unconscious man _could_ be Jack. When Mac came into the parlour she just shook her head, a minuscule motion that caused Phryne’s stomach to plummet.

“Right,” she said brusquely, brushing her hands together. “Right. I can… Right. Mr. Butler!”

The man appeared in an instant, and Phryne stood.

“Mr. Butler, if you could bring any newspapers from the past three weeks that you can find?”

He nodded and retreated to the kitchen, where a box of old newsprint was kept for starting fires.

“What are you doing, Phryne?” Mac asked.

“I’m figuring out who the hell Reg McAllen is, Mac, and then I am figuring how to get into that hospital room.”

“I don’t even know, for sure,” Mac said, but it was a weak argument.

Several hours later, a picture had begun to emerge. Three days earlier there had been a raid in some warehouses, a counterfeiting ring. One man had been killed, two injured; one of the injured men had only had minor contusions and was now being held at the city gaol. The other was Reg McAllen.

As Mac pulled on her coat to leave, Phryne took a deep breath.

“Will he be alright?”

“I don’t know, darling,” Mac said quietly. “I really don’t know.”

Phryne returned to the parlour, carefully setting aside every news article on the raid that she could find, then retreated to her bedroom. She collapsed onto her bed, unable to even change out of her daywear, pulled a pillow close and sobbed until she fell asleep.

 ———

 Things which did not get Phryne into a locked ward included posing as a nurse, posing as Reg McAllen’s sister, bribery, invoking Prudence Stanley, and begging. So she lurked near to the doors and watched the visitors allowed to come and go; there was one who visited twice in one day, an older woman with a nose that looked like Jack’s. As she left the ward a second time, Phryne fell in beside her.

“Mrs. Robinson?”

The woman’s stride faltered for half a step, but then she kept on moving.

“Afraid you have the wrong woman,” she said bluntly, a trace of a Scottish accent still present.

“Of course. Mrs. McAllen?”

“Who’s asking?”

“I’m a…” Phryne hesitated. “A friend of J—Reg’s.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t trust you.”

Phryne wondered if this woman would recognise her name, if she could throw her arms wide and yell from the rooftops that she was Phryne Fisher and Jack was her friend, more than a friend but still undefined, and she only wanted to know that he was well. But there had to be a reason for the continued secrecy, and though it pained her to remain silent, she did.

They were approaching the exit, and Phryne rapidly saw her chance disappearing with every step nearer.

“Please,” she said quietly. “Please, I just need to know.”

“He’s awake, and that’s all you’ll get from me,” said the woman, a hint of mercy softening her blunt words.

“That’s all I wanted,” said Phryne, relief coursing through her. “That’s all I wanted.”

 ———

 “Miss Fisher, we’ve had a complaint made against you,” Hugh said, standing in her parlour and doing his best to appear professional. He really was coming along remarkably well, considering where he had started; Jack would be proud.

“A complaint?” Phryne asked, trying not to smirk. There were regularly complaints made against her from neighbourhood busybodies. It had become rather a long-standing joke.

Hugh looked at his notes and shifted nervously.

“Ahh, yes. From a Mrs. McAllen? She says that you’ve been harassing her when she’s visiting her son in hospital.”

“Oh, pshaw!” Phryne dismissed the accusation with a wave of her hand. “I merely asked her a few questions.”

“She says to tell you…” Hugh conferred with his notebook again. “‘My Reg don’t know no Miss Fisher, and if you carry on with this harassment I’ll take it up with the commissioner.’ That’s it, miss. I think she was serious though; she looked just about ready to spit tacks.”

It seemed a perfectly normal sort of statement, but Phryne found herself puzzling over it nonetheless. She hadn’t introduced herself, had she? And why had Mrs. McAllen gone to Hugh? There were three police stations between City South and the hospital, not to mention the constable standing guard.

“I suppose I’ll have to leave it,” Phryne said. “I don’t suppose you know anything about the raid?”

“Uh, no miss. It was the other side of town, nobody from this side of the river was involved.”

“Ahh,” Phryne said as flippantly as she could manage. “Oh well. It was just tying up a loose end on an old case. Why don’t you see Mr. Butler on the way out, bring some biscuits back to the station?”

“Thank you,” Hugh said, relieved that his message was heard and accepted without complaint. He was almost out of the room when Phryne added. “Hugh, have you heard from the inspector at all?”

He didn’t even pause. “No, miss. I’m sure he’s been busy.”

Phryne sighed. If there was something going on, Hugh had clearly been left out of it.

 ———

A week after the raid, Mac came to Wardlow with the news that Reg McAllen had been released.

“So quickly?” Phryne asked.

Mac nodded, explaining that—from what she had gathered, which was not much—it had been an induced unconsciousness while they waited for some swelling to abate, to keep him comfortable and prevent further damage, and he was expected to make a full recovery.

“Well, that’s a relief,” Phryne said. “To Mrs. McAllen, if nobody else.”

“I take it you’re no further on tracking Jack down?”

“Not at all,” Phryne sighed. “I can’t even seem to find a foothold. After the threats of bringing the commissioner in I decided to steer clear of the hospital; either Reg McAllen is exactly who he is supposed to be and of no use to me, or they are trying to keep Jack’s identity a secret and I’d just be drawing attention to it.”

“That’s...rather restrained of you,” her friend said.

Phryne rolled her eyes. “I am capable to rational thought, you know.”

“When it comes to the inspector, I’m not entirely sure you _are_.”

“What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

Phryne raised an eyebrow and dared her friend to explain.

“How honest do you want me to be?” Mac countered, then softened. A softened Mac was a disconcerting sight. “I’m just saying that Inspector Robinson is… someone you care about. And when you care, you act first and think later.”

“Not always,” Phryne said, far more quietly than she expected. “Sometimes I don’t act at all.”

Mac stood up, meeting Mr. Butler and his tray of cocktails at the parlour door, taking a seat beside Phryne and offering over a glass.   

“Maybe this was a sign that you should,” she said simply.

Phryne’s laugh was slightly bitter. “Since when do you believe in that sort of nonsense?”

“Since my oldest and dearest friend found herself making eyes at a man.”

“I always make eyes at men,” Phryne laughed, sincerely this time and trying not to think how long it had been since she had. “How do you think I get them into bed?”

 ———

 Two days later Phryne drove by Jack’s house and noticed movement in a window; she parked the Hispano and sat outside his bungalow for nearly an hour before driving home again.  

She needed more information, and she was out of options. She scoured the newspapers; the only thing brought to light was the Reg McAllen’s name was not among those with charges levied against them. If it had been Jack, and she was almost certain it was, there would be some reason he had still not reached out. A simple telephone call would suffice. He _must_ have realised how concerned she would be.

Of course, _she_ hadn’t realised how concerned she would be. She knew she cared. She suspected that it was not merely platonic friendship and lust fuelling her desires to bed him. But that low-level, instinctual _need_? That had been unexpected. And not entirely welcome.

(She dreamt of him one night, standing at the foot of her stairs and exactly as he was the night of the Pandarus. Reaching for the lapels of his coat, desperate to feel him beneath her hands, she found only air. She felt strangely empty when she woke, and not even the promise of a new case could shake it.)

Eventually a letter came; she recognised his scrawling hand and examined the envelope for evidence. It was postmarked from Sydney, which surprised her. It was brief and to the point—his stay had been far longer than he expected but his mother was finally on the mend, he was still uncertain exactly when he would return and thankfully his neighbour was caring for the house—but he addressed her as Phryne and signed off with ‘Until our next investigation’, which was the sort of absurd thing that only Jack would think to say and _mean_ , and it made her smile.

She tucked the letter in a drawer, feeling much more like herself for the first time in weeks.

“Dot!” she called out. “I’m going dancing tonight!”

 ———

Six weeks since she had last seen him and a month after Reg McAllen’s injuries, Phryne received the news she had been waiting for. She quickly grabbed the nearest hat and drove to the station.

“Jack Robinson!” she scolded as she stepped into the office. “I can’t believe that I had to hear from Hugh that you were back. _Hugh_! I’m fond of the boy, but...”

“I wasn’t aware that my trip to Sydney was of such interest, Miss Fisher,” Jack said dryly, looking the tiniest bit haggard but otherwise exactly as he ever did.

“Yes, well…”

She strode towards his desk but hesitated at the last step. He moved a file to give her room to perch and a lump jumped into her throat. Dear man. Taking the offered seat, she reached out to brush some imaginary lint from his shoulder. When she spoke again, her voice was soft.

“Don’t do that again. Please.”

“I can’t make any promises,” he said quietly, and it was enough.

“I don’t want promises, Jack. But as your friend, I do want honesty.”

“I told you as much as I could.”

“I know,” she said, swallowing hard against the lump. “But…”

She wasn’t entirely certain what she meant to say. She reached out again, adjusted his collar, brushed her fingers against the short hairs on the nape of his neck.

“Come to dinner.”

“Pardon?”

“Come to dinner. Next week. I’ve got a trip up to the mountains with Aunt Prudence in a couple of days, to do a sort of Christmas in July thing while she signs over ownership of some old property, but we should be back in time for dinner next Saturday.”

He nodded, just slightly, and she allowed her hand to drop away; she hadn’t even realised that it had lingered.

“I’ll look forward to it, Miss Fisher.”

“Me too, Jack,” she said, standing. It was enough; he was alive and whole and she was not waiting for his invitation any longer. She headed towards the door, then paused with her hand on the knob. “And do make sure you are sufficiently recovered by then? Who knows where the evening might lead….”

He nodded again, a small smile on his face, and she beamed in return.

_Until dinner, my noble Jack Robinson, because I'm not willing to wait for murder._


End file.
